UNIVERSITY  OF 
AT   LOS 


Gift  of 
Mrs.  Prank  Good 


sen 


IV 


AUSH3AIKI1 


THE    FLOOD     OF     YEARS. 


W I  LLI  Agfjg  U  LLE  N    BRYANT 


NEW    YORK 

G.     P.     PUTNAM'S    SONS 
1879 


COPYKIGHT    BV 

G.     P.     PUTNAM'S     SONS, 
1877. 


ML 

~,». 

lib  e 


THE   ILLUSTRATIONS 
DESIGNED     AND     ENGRAVED 

BY 

W.     J.     LINTON. 


398693 


A  MIGHTY  HAND,  from  an  exhaustless  urn, 
Pours  forth  the  never-ending  Flood  of  Years 
Among  the  nations.     How  the  rushing  waves 
Bear  all  before  them  !     On  their  foremost  edge, 
And  there  alone,  is  Life ;  the  Present  there 
Tosses  and  foams  and  fills  the  air  with  roar 
Of  mingled  noises. 


THE  FLOOD    OF  YEARS. 


There  are  they  who  toil, 

And  they  who  strive,  and  they  who  feast,  and  they 
Who  hurry  to  and  fro.     The  sturdy  hind — 
Woodman  and  delver  with  the  spade — are  there, 
And  busy  artisan  beside  his  bench, 
And  pallid  student  with  his  written  roll. 
A  moment  on  the  mounting  billow  seen — 
The  flood  sweeps  over  them  and  they  are  gone. 
There  groups  of  revelers,  whose  brows  are  twined 
With  roses,  ride  the  topmost  swell  awhile, 


The  sturdy  hind — -woodman — are  there 


THE  FLOOD    OF   YEARS. 


And  as  they  raise  their  flowing  cups  to  touch 

The  clinking  brim  to  brim,  are  whirled  beneath 

The  waves  and  disappear.     I  hear  the  jar 

Of  beaten  drums,  and  thunders  that  break  forth 

From  cannon,  where  the  advancing  billow  sends 

Up  to  the  sight  long  files  of  armed  men, 

That  hurry  to  the  charge  through  flame  and  smoke. 

The  torrent  bears  them  under,  whelmed  and  hid, 

Slayer  and  slain,  in  heaps  of  bloody  foam. 

Down  go  the  steed  and  rider ;  the  plumed  chief 

Sinks  with  his  followers  ;  the  head  that  wears 

The  imperial  diadem  goes  down  beside 

The  felon's  with  cropped  ear  and  branded  cheek. 


THE  FLOOD    OF   YEARS. 


A  funeral  train — the  torrent  sweeps  away 

Bearers  and  bier  and  mourners.     By  the  bed 

Of  one  who  dies  men  gather  sorrowing, 

And  women  weep  aloud  ;  the  flood  rolls  on  ; 

The  wail  is  stifled,  and  the  sobbing  group 

Borne  under.      Hark  to  that  shrill  sudden  shout — 

The  cry  of  an  applauding  multitude 

Swayed  by  some  loud-tongued  orator,  who  wields 

The  living  mass  as  if  he  were  its  soul. 

The  waters  choke  the  shout  and  all  is  still. 

Lo,  next,  a  kneeling  crowd  and  one  who  spreads 

The  hands  in  prayer ;  the  engulfing  wave  o'ertakes 

And  swallows  them  and  him. 


THE  FLOOD    OF   YEARS. 


A  sculptor  wields 

The  chisel,  and  the  stricken  marble  grows 
To  beauty  ;  at  his  easel,  eager-eyed, 
A  painter  stands,  and  sunshine  at  his  touch 
Gathers  upon  the  canvas,  and  life  glows ; 
A  poet,  as  he  paces  to  and  fro, 
Murmurs  his  sounding  lines.     Awhile  they  ride 
The  advancing  billow,  till  its  tossing  crest 
Strikes  them  and  flings  them  under  while  their  tasks 
Are  yet  unfinished.     See  a  mother  smile 
On  her  young  babe  that  smiles  to  her  again — 
The  torrent  wrests  it  from  her  arms  ;  she  shrieks, 
And  weeps,  and  midst  her  tears  is  carried  down. 


THE  FLOOD    OF   YEARS. 


A  beam  like  that  of  moonlight  turns  the  spray 
To  glistening  pearls ;  two  lovers,  hand  in  hand, 
Rise  on  the  billowy  swell  and  fondly  look 
Into  each  other's  eyes.     The  rushing  flood 
Flings   them   apart ;    the   youth   goes   down ;    the 

maid, 
With    hands    outstretched  in  vain    and   streaming 

eyes, 

Waits  for  the  next  high  wave  to  follow  him. 
An  aged  man  succeeds  ;  his  bending  form 
Sinks  slowly  ;  mingling  with  the  sullen  stream 
Gleam  the  white  locks  and  then  are  seen  no  more. 

Lo,  wider  grows  the  stream  ;  a  sea-like  flood 
Saps  earth's  walled  cities ;  massive  palaces 
Crumble  before  it ;  fortresses  and  towers 


T7lf  rushing  flood  flings  them  apart 


THE  FLOOD    OF   YEARS. 


Dissolve  in  the  swift  waters  ;  populous  realms 
Swept  by  the  torrent,  see  their  ancient  tribes 
Engulfed  and  lost,  their  very  languages 
Stifled  and  never  to  be  uttered  more. 

I  pause  and  turn  my  eyes  and,  looking  back, 
Where  that  tumultuous  flood  has  passed,  I  see 
The  silent  Ocean  of  the  Past,  a  waste 
Of  waters  weltering  over  graves,  its  shores 
Strewn  with  the  wreck  of  fleets,  where  mast  and 

hull 

Drop  away  piecemeal ;  battlemented  walls 
Frown  idly,  green  with  moss,  and  temples  stand 
Unroofed,  forsaken  by  the  worshippers. 
There  lie  memorial  stones,  whence  time  has  gnawed 
The  graven  legends,  thrones  of  kings  o'erturned, 
The  broken  altars  of  forgotten  gods, 


Wlicrc  mast  and  hull  drop  away  piecemeal. 


'1HE  FLOOD    OF   YEARS. 


Foundations  of  old  cities,  and  long  streets 
Where  never  fall  of  human  foot  is  heard 
Upon  the  desolate  pavement.     I  behold 
Dim  glimmerings  of  lost  jewels  far  within 
The  sleeping  waters,  diamond,  sardonyx, 
Ruby  and  topaz,  pearl  and  chrysolite, 
Once  glittering  at  the  banquet  on  fair  brows 
That  long  ago  were  dust ;  and  all  around, 
Strewn  on  the  waters' of  that  silent  sea, 
Are  withering  bridal  wreaths,  and  glossy  locks 
Shorn  from  fair  brows  by  loving  hands,  and  scrolls 
O'erwritten, — haply  with  fond  words  of  love 
And  vows  of  friendship — and  fair  pages  flung 
Fresh  from  the  printer's  engine.     There  they  lie 
A  moment  and  then  sink  away  from  sight. 


Temples  forsaken  by  the  •worshippers 


THE  FLOOD   OF  YEARS. 


I  look,  and  the  quick  tears  are  in  my  eyes, 
For  I  behold,  in  every  one  of  these, 
A  blighted  hope,  a  separate  history 
Of  human  sorrow,  telling  of  dear  ties 
Suddenly  broken,  dreams  of  happiness 
Dissolved  in  air,  and  happy  days,  too  brief, 
That  sorrowfully  ended,  and  I  think 
How  painfully  must  the  poor  heart  have  beat 
In  bosoms  without  number,  as  the  blow 
Was    struck  that  slew  their  hope  or   broke    their 
peace. 

Sadly  I  turn,  and  look  before,  where  yet 
The  Flood  must  pass,  and  I  behold  a  mist 


THE  FLOOD    OF   YEARS. 


•\ 

Where  swarm  dissolving  forms,  the  brood  of  Hope, 
Divinely  fair,  that  rest  on  banks  of  flowers 
Or  wander  among  rainbows,  fading  soon 
And  reappearing,  haply  giving  place 
To  shapes  of  grisly  aspect,  such  as  Fear 
Molds  from  the  idle  air ;  where  serpents  lift 
The  head  to  strike,  and  skeletons  stretch  forth 
The  bony  arm  in  menace.     Further  on 
A  belt  of  darkness  seems  to  bar  the  way, 
Long,  low  and  distant,  where  the  Life  that  Is 
Touches  the  Life  to  Come.     The  Flood  of  Years 
Rolls  toward  it,  near  and  nearer.     It  must  pass 
That  dismal  barrier.     What  is  there  beyond  ? 
Hear  what  the  wise  and  good  have  said. 


39869.'? 


THE  FLOOD    OF  YEARS. 


Beyond 

That  belt  of  darkness  still  the  years  roll  on 
More  gently,  but  with  not  less  mighty  sweep. 
They  gather  up  again  and  softly  bear 
All  the  sweet  lives  that  late  were  overwhelmed 
And  lost  to  sight — all  that  in  them  was  good, 
Noble,  and  truly  great  and  worthy  of  love — 
The  lives  of  infants  and  ingenuous  youths, 
Sages  and  saintly  women  who  have  made 
Their  households  happy — all  are  raised  and  borne 
By  that  great  current  in  its  onward  sweep, 
Wandering  and  rippling  with  caressing  waves 
Around  green  islands,  fragrant  with  the  breath 
Of  flowers  that  never  wither. 


THE  FLOOD    OF   YEARS. 


So  they  pass, 

From  stage  to  stage,  along  the  shining  course 
Of  that  fair  river  broadening  like  a  sea. 
As  its  smooth  eddies  curl  along  their  way, 
They  bring  old  friends  together  ;  hands  are  clasped 
In  joy  unspeakable  ;  the  mother's  arms 
Again  are  folded  round  the  child  she  loved 
And  lost.     Old  sorrows  are  forgotten  now, 
Or  but  remembered  to  make  sweet  the  hour 
That  overpays  them  ;  wounded  hearts  that  bled 
Or  broke  are  healed  forever. 


THE  FLOOD    OF   YEARS. 


In  the  room 

Of  this  grief-shadowed  Present  there  shall  be 
A  Present  in  whose  reign  no  grief  shall  gnaw 
The  heart,  and  never  shall  a  tender  tie 
Be  broken — in  whose  reign  the  eternal  Change 
That  waits  on  growth  and  action  shall  proceed 
With  everlasting  Concord  hand  in  hand. 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


JU 


UMML 


UC  SOUTHE 


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